it's a specific ache

sleep is stealing over the sheets

i cradle a lover

i'm dizzy-heavy, all muscle melting into madrugada impending

a bird is tucked under its wing

the bugs have gentled their glow

i'm weighted eyes

i'm floating bones

i'm thanking clouds for holding out another hour

i'm almost there

my chest tightens

my throat constricts

i'm an almost dream

i'm haunted by a crying spell

i'm at the edge

my voice curdles

i hold the scream

i fail to sleep

I used to think that I would find a place

Where I didn't have to hide my true face

Where I could be loud and obnoxious, dancing wherever I want

Saying what's really on my mind, not confirming to a single theme or font

I've searched far and wide, ending always with the wrong person

Losing belief that I will find where faith in myself will not worsen

It seems to me that all people do is tell me where I could be better

Constantly critiquing my every move, unknowingly adding a fetter

After more reflection I have finally found a place I can really call my own

I may not be much but I sure love me and that's why I'm my forever home.

I began my life in a dimly lit, windowless room with wooden walls and dirt floors. Gnarled hands with small fingers made magic with multicolored threads of wool and wove me into existence. After the last warp and weft, I was snipped, washed and hung to dry. I met the sun, felt the warmth in its light, then the moon and the chill of darkness.

Soon, I was bundled away into a dark space. When I was released, I was carried into this room of marble floors and high ceilings, where I have lain ever since.

I have tracked the passage of time through the myriad windows that surround my home.

And through the little bodies that arrived carried in arms, then were set free to crawl upon me; who quickly began to walk then run, playing with other little ones; but, eventually played no longer, only walked and talked, occasionally loudly, leaving for many moons, rarely returning, sometimes with new little ones. Till all the faces grew lined, the bodies stooped and slow, eventually carried out never to return.

Then it would all begin again. Over and over. Through them all, I remained.

I am not as I once was. The sun has turned my bright colors dull; the many who have enjoyed the beauty and warmth I offered have rubbed away many parts of me. And yet, whoever comes, keeps me here.

And so you find me still, a perpetual silent observer of the lives that come...and go.

I made a fresh loaf in our bread machine Sunday night. My wife and I were closing out our long Thanksgiving weekend with some good cheese and red wine, and the warm bread tasted very pleasant. I had not used the bread machine in a while, but it got a great deal of use in the spring of 2020, when every trip to the sparsely-stocked grocery store felt like running a gauntlet. I thought back to those times as I measured the two-and-a-half teaspoons of yeast; the memories invested our clink of glasses an hour later with extra meaning. For my family, as of December 1, the pressing phase of the pandemic is over.

I do not mean that COVID-19 is gone, or that all risk has disappeared: Delta and Omicron are out there, and “endemic” means we will all get it at some point. Certainly, the pandemic continues to affect numerous facets of life and will for some time. We still wear masks. All the same, Wednesday afternoon marked an end of sorts because my daughters received their second doses of the Pfizer vaccine, and I feel that I have done my duty. I worked to avoid spreading COVID-19 until those for whom I was responsible could be vaccinated; I succeeded.

I felt responsible for my parents and my wife’s parents, all of whom are in good health, but who are old enough to be at risk: they are all fully vaccinated and have received their boosters. I am responsible for my wife and children, all the more so because as a high school teacher, I am the most exposed member of the family: we are all vaccinated, and my wife and I have received our boosters. I am responsible for the well-being of my students: they are not all vaccinated (I don’t know how many are, and it’s not my business), but they all could be if they and their families choose for them to be.

Emotionally, I struggled the most with safeguarding my students. When our school reopened in September 2020—on a hybrid remote and in-person schedule so as to have half as many students in the building—I could not escape the feeling of impending doom. My colleagues and I guessed at how long we could stay open before cases shut us down: one said two weeks, a lot said a month. I guessed two months, reasoning that the first long weekend would lead to travel and positives brought home to our rural county. Universally, we expected the closure to come any day, and I lived in fear of it. I tried to avoid contact with others because I feared that I would be the one who would shut down the school. If I got COVID-19, how many staff members might I force into quarantine? Roughly sixty students would have had to quarantine: sixty students who could not attend school or work jobs, or watch younger siblings so their parents could work. Sixty students to whom I could pass the virus, who would (in all likelihood) be fine themselves, but who might live with an immune-compromised parent or a grandparent, whom I might kill.

I remember the moment when it became clear that I was not alright, because I posted to Prose about it. I have a beautiful view outside my classroom window: the athletic field in front of a hillside with many trees, which in autumn blaze their colors in the morning sun. The news had reported several new positives in the county that day, and I tried to see the hillside, tried to feel and love it. I wrote this haiku:

Cases are spiking here.

September leaves, fence,

hillside in the morning sun,

sky: you must hold this.

Steuben County, New York - 9/25/2020

Beautiful things are talismans. The moments of peace and love they inspire can stave away anxiety and fear. Encounters with beauty keep me whole, and when I lose my capability for that feeling, I’m in a rough place. When my wife miscarried years ago, I wrote in a journal, “I feel no joy in the trees.” That feeling of disconnection passed, though; the COVID anxiety did not.

I sought counseling. I never had before, but I needed help dealing with that weight. It helped.

My wife and I missed our regular visits with our parents, none of whom live in our state. I know people who would not see their older parents at all until vaccinations, and on the other hand, people who went on visiting throughout the pandemic as though all were normal: neither pole was an option for us. I wanted to be cautious and avoid endangering the older people in my life, but going many months on end without seeing a loved one is its own kind of risk. Days are finite.

We decided on a middle ground. Throughout 2020, we saw our parents only under tightly controlled circumstances: we would hole up for ten days without going anywhere, even the grocery store, and if we were symptom-free after that, we would be together like in the old days. We would see one another’s faces mask-free. We would hug. Once school began, we did not visit until January: the winter break permitted nine days out of the classroom before a visit, which we deemed close enough. This was not a perfectly safe approach, of course: there is no perfectly safe approach. It was the risk we all calculated we were willing to take, and it worked out alright.

A lot worked out alright. I did not shut down the school. No one did: there were quarantines a-plenty, but we made it through the year, open every day except two (while admin got the hang of contact tracing). It was not a normal year, but there was school, and it was good. I was exposed to COVID-positive students four times that year, and I had to quarantine and isolate from my family twice, but through a combination of good fortune and safety protocols, I never contracted and spread COVID.

I got my first Moderna dose in January 2021, the second four weeks later. (If I hadn’t, Public Health would have instructed me to isolate from my family after those last two exposures, too.) By the time spring break rolled around, my wife and our parents were fully vaccinated as well. We visited at will again, and thus regained our biggest portion of normal.

In the summer, we flew to visit friends in Colorado. My wife and I went to a Denver jazz club with them; it was the first live performance of anything I had attended in sixteen months, and I wept. My daughters got their first PCR tests and used the negative results to check in at sleepaway Girl Scout Camp for a week. They acted in Charlotte’s Web with our community theatre group. When September came, they returned to school every day, and they began attending extracurricular classes for ceramics and tap dancing; I’ve passed the time during their lessons writing at a typically-uncrowded brew pub. Masked, and with every audience member over 12 providing proof of vaccination, we have attended tours of Broadway musicals that were a very long time coming. All of which is to say, we have been happily living our nearly-normal lives because life had to resume. And now, my kids are vaccinated.

The Northeast winter and holidays mean a spike is coming, and the vaccines are not full-proof. Breakthrough cases have been widely reported for months. But as has also been reported, up-to-date vaccines have provided meaningful protection against the worst outcomes. Personally, I have known vaccinated individuals who contracted COVID who merely had unpleasant colds, and other vaccinated individuals who felt pretty sick. For that matter, I’ve known unvaccinated individuals for whom COVID-19 meant nothing more than an unpleasant cold. But I’ve also known an unvaccinated woman in her thirties with previous lung problems who lacked the breath to speak on the phone and spent a week unconscious on a ventilator. I’ve known an unvaccinated 50-year-old runner of marathons who for more than a week stayed in bed until 1:00 pm because he lacked the breath to walk to his kitchen. I’ve been acquainted with three people who died from COVID-19: two who died before anyone could get vaccines, and one who died having chosen not to get one.

I also know someone who contracted COVID in October 2020 who still cannot taste food. That is what I feared as much as anything: long haul COVID. Lacking the ability to taste that celebratory wine, cheese, and bread with my wife is unfathomable to me. Putting aside all other negative outcomes possible from the disease—you know, like death—the potential impact on taste alone would have been enough for me to get the vaccine. Statistically, my children were always highly unlikely to die from COVID, and I never really feared it. But I did not want to disable them. Their vaccinations are not guarantees that they’ll avoid long haul COVID, but it’s meaningful protection that they can have, and it gives us a more confident freedom than we had before.

This is not to say that everything is the way it was. Most school and community activities have returned, but not all. I’ve been teaching in a mask to masked high school students all year; my honest take is that I’m indifferent to the cloth on our faces. Students are working in groups more often this year. I no longer feel crushing personal responsibility for their wellbeing, or the wellbeing of the people in their lives. Their health is in their own hands and out of mine—to my immense relief. I protected them as best I could and restricted my own life while they had no option aside from trusting me. Now, the option is theirs and their families’, and they will calculate the odds for themselves just as we calculated ours.

The most significant COVID impact on my family at present is who we can see. Some of our closest friends are caregivers for cancer patients, and they’ve determined they cannot take the risk of spending time with others. In their places, I would make the same choice. When we see them again, if we see them again, it will be outdoors when the weather turns warm in April. We try to keep in touch. I hope they are well.

For now, we have plans again. A long weekend trip, a performance of Hadestown in New York, a vacation to Yellowstone with my parents. Group activities. Hugging those we love and breaking bread. Giving thanks.

my fingers lost their magic touch, tips on keys they hover

no more words spill out, i grieve them like ive lost my lover

and its this covid world thats sucked the breath out of me

in an airtight fishbowl i forget to speak in poetry

my mood ring never changes from this deep indigo color

like it found a calm emotion & refused to take another

i keep it on like a talisman i’m calm i’m calm i’m calm

its begun to rust sickly green against the inside of my palm

a bing crosby song echoes from the kitchen to my locked door

mom sings white christmas, though shes never had one before

today i told her that i might just have to move away

she feigns hurt surprise, as if guilt will make me stay

we watch dust storm rain spatter the window’s muddy glass

and pretend its a wintery-cold storm to make time drag past

the grass is dead like scattered bones, there are no fall leaf trees

wind sucks at our front door's metal lock with a heavyladen wheeze

i force my fingers to write but cant understand the language they shape

and it translates in tears and panic attacks and unspeakable need to escape

someday i will remember how to eat without fighting and digging at my waist

ill write real words again and meet new friends and remember how things taste

my mood ring will shift tones and match the labels on its color chart

but for now i wonder how long it all will take in the waiting part

"What would you like?" the little voice in my head says with sassy ease. As seasonal depression comes bounding back in waxing waves, my inner monologues begin to flip flop between overbearing nit picking and taunting tease. I drove down the winding, silent roads of the sparse back streets and at this very moment, the critic in my head decided to be the latter today.

"I know what you want." The critic answered. "Silence and serenity. Tea and tranquility. A break from this horrid burnout you're facing."

And they weren't wrong. I couldn't deny it in the least. I pined after it so hopelessly. Will this yearning ever end?

"But you're quite silly, don't you see? Right now, you already have all three!" They continued.

A stop sign loomed nearby and I halted to a stop.

The skies were a sea consisting of a myriad of pastel purple, blues and pinks. Crisp morning winds danced through my rolled windows and bounced happily. Within my cup holder was an untouched green tea and the aroma wafted through the bouncy breezes happily.

The voice was right, I hate to admit. Because all I wanted only happened during the brief, fleeting commune to the hellhole I claim as my institution.

"I hate you so much."

Those four words were a phrase I'd always inevitably mutter as I meander my way through the school's chaotic parking lot.

"I know you do." The inner critic chortled as I stumble out of my car. "Have fun in chemistry!"

"I hate you too." I retorted but the voice had already left me when I stepped foot into the classroom.

It was just me, my untouched lab report and the stiffening silence before the start of the lecture.

This is by far the strangest thing that has ever happened to me.

When I was younger, my parents would occasionally check on me in the middle of the night on school nights to make sure I wasn't still awake reading or playing on my phone. If I were asleep, I would usually wake up at the sound of my door opening and drift off again when it closed.

One night, I heard my door open. I felt as though I had been asleep a long time, and sensed that it was later than they would normally come in. I heard footsteps on the carpet walking into my room and around to the side of my bed. I remained still, my eyes closed, waiting for them to leave so I could go back to sleep. Then I felt them sit down on the edge of my bed. I heard the springs creak and felt the weight of their body. I still didn't open my eyes, groggily willing them to leave. I could feel them leaning over and I felt arms wrapping around my body. Arms that were too long, almost like snakes circling my torso. All of the sudden my entire body erupted with the sensation of pins and needles, like when your foot falls asleep, but everywhere at once. I jerked awake and shot upright breathing hard. No one was in my room, and the door was closed.

Everyone says that I dreamt it but it was too real to be a dream. The sound of the footsteps, the weight on my bed and arms were all things that I distinctly remember, and I have never felt as deep of a chill and as intense of a tingling as I did that night. I guess I will never know.

Walking in the night

Dancing with Nightmares.

Dark blanket of ebon.

The candle lit room in the, house at the end of the road.

I walk out the door.

Light trailing behind me.

Splitting the darkness.

Smoke wafting heavy

in the cold night air.

My every breath, heavy with sadness and lust.

My eyes burning with tears of rage.

I see ghosts dancing in the moonlight.

I fall to the ground crucified by all that surrounds me.

Wounds rend my body and make me impotent to the darkness.

The candle lit room in the house at the end of the road.

Dancing with Nightmares in a blanket of ebon.

The night heavy with sadness and lust.

D. Casabonne (C) 11.28.2021 All rights reserved

Grandmother wanted to name me Gabrielle. My mother didn't want people to call me Gabby. She must have had a sixth sense. My teachers in elementary and high school would have led the charge with that nickname given report card comments that often began, "sweet girl, a little too chatty."

Wanting something unusual (ironically, it's rather common nowadays), my mother baptized me Danielle Colette. I added Marie-Therese upon my confirmation at aged thirteen. And Tezcan upon my marriage a decade later. It was some 20 years before anyone actually called me Danielle.

My mother called - and calls - me any number of things - pooh bear, pumpernickel, darling, Danny Girl... I was almost an adult before I knew the song Oh Danny Boy was not an alternate (nor erroneous) rendition of the song she had sung to me.

My grandmother, aunts, uncles, cousins and childhood friends called - and call - me Danny. Briefly, perhaps just the weekend of the retreat when I claimed it, despite the sweatshirt where the name even now still lives, I was Dizzy Danny. An attempt to invent a less serious version of myself - with, alas, dubious success.

I had a babysitter who called me "De-nelle." My great grandmother called me "Damn-yil" (seriously). My great great grandmother called me "Daaaaaaa-ny" in a rather sweet, gravelly sing-songy voice.

My daddy called me baby till the day he died.

Since my sophomore year in college I have been Danielle to everyone I have met. Thus, I know how long I've known someone by whether they call me Danny or Danielle.

Except...

My husband calls me canım benim (my soul) sevgilim (my darling), aşkım (my love), birtanem (sweetheart), her şeyim (my everything), hayatım (my life) and fıstık (peanut).

Once upon a time, my son called me Mommy. Now, I am Mom.

One day, if I am lucky, I will be Grandma or Nana or Granny.

Of all the names I have been called, which is my favorite? Debatable, but I think Mommy wins. Granny might overtake the lead someday...I will have to get back to you on that one.

So in the late 90s I was living in Massachusetts, working for a large medical insurance company.

I had just been hired as a permanent employee, I had started as a temp.

I was setting up my cubicle, the two ladies across the aisle from me Nancy and Charmaine were talking. As I'm hanging pictures of my sons up the one woman commented " Are those your sons they are adorable.

So they start asking me the standard questions, what are their names, what's your wife's name. I said that my wife and I were no longer together, Nancy asked why. Without skipping a beat I looked at her and said because she couldn’t keep

her legs closed. Nancy's Jaw dropped to the floor, Charmaine was laughing so hard I thought she was going to have a heart attack.

Part of my duties was answering the phones, taking customer calls when customer service was getting overloaded. So I get this call from a rather Irate customer about a claim that wasn’t covered. I tried to explain to the customer that I would need to transfer them to our claims department. The customer got very Irate and said I've been bounced around the queue 3 times. This customer then proceeded to tell me that we were just ripping people off , and we were all a bunch of idiots, and retards. Again without skipping a beat I said to the customer, retard is an offensive word, we like to be called cerebrally challenged. I transferred the call to claims. Nancy and Charmaine who had heard the whole exchange were laughing hysterically. Not just because of the way I handled the call, because my supervisor April had been standing behind me the whole time. She admonished me for my comment, trying her damnedest not lo laugh.

D. Casabonne ( C) 11/4/21 All Rights Reserved